


(Unintentional) Murder at the Cathedral

by Linesk



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale loses his whole mind, Character Death, Crowley's an idiot, Flagrant abuse of miracles, Fluff, Humor, I only chose to not delete it for the handful of poor bastards who actually bookmarked this shit, I was very inebriated when I wrote this, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Sexual Content, There's a happy ending tho, Whump, please don't actually read this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-08-19 13:40:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20210686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linesk/pseuds/Linesk
Summary: Even as he feels every atom of his existence tearing apart, Crowley muses that, yeah, of course it would all end this way. After 6 bloody millennia it makes perfect sense that his attempt to take Aziraphale out on a proper date would be thwarted by something so innocuous. He wants to laugh at the brutal irony of it all, but can only manage a brittle, strangled noise that bubbles from the back of his throat. There's the angel's twisted expression of despair, then there's the anguish of a timeless being dissolving into goo, and it's all because of some clueless twat and a nameless brat.The Lord works in mysterious ways, after all.





	1. Take a Look in the Mirror and Cry

It really was a lovely day for a church picnic, and Isla couldn’t help but smile as she looked up at the lofty towers of The Basilica of St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral, each hand-crafted spire reaching high and up to seemingly graze the very Heavens. 

Isla didn’t necessarily believe in God, but she _was_ a devout Catholic, nonetheless. That is to say, she went through the motions with enthusiasm and as much grace as her naturally clumsy arse could muster. She had met a man, you see, who had swept her right off her feet, and he had been Catholic, and so she more or less said “fuck it” and dove headfirst into the holy lifestyle. She now knew all of the hymns by heart, knew when to kneel and when to stand, and she was always the first to volunteer for events like these. The Catholic régime had bestowed her with built-in friends, had given her a reason to help her community, and, more importantly, had bound her to her lovely spouse, and so, atheist though she was, she had stumbled quite willingly into this new, warm, happy life.

Event tents were being pitched on the well-manicured front lawn and fine catered food was being paraded out in large, rectangular aluminum pans. It all looked very promising. That was another distinct perk of belonging to a church, she silently mused – the delicious free food.

Just as her stomach began to rumble in anticipation, a squat, kindly old lady approached, a colorful plastic bag in tow.

“Ah, good morning, Isla!” she greeted, as she thrust the bag into Isla’s personal space. “Why don’t you go fill these water balloons for the children, hm? That’s a dear,” she concluded hastily as she patted Isla’s hand and left as quickly as she’d come.

Ever eager to please, Isla took to this new assignment like an agent of the state might take to a matter of national security, suddenly very serious and determined. She marched right inside the cathedral and paused for a moment. She had stood beneath those ornate ivory arches a hundred times before, and yet the sight never failed to take her breath away.

She took a deep inhale and could almost taste the dust and marble and _history_, a unique flavor of times long past that dissolved deliciously on her tongue. 

Then, with renewed vigor, she turned and strode into the ladies’ room, before considering the bag in hand with a speculative eye.

“Seems simple enough,” she quipped aloud before inelegantly ripping the plastic open with her teeth.

At first she didn’t bother to check the instructions, and instead turned the faucet before holding a balloon under the steady stream of water. The balloon barely filled at all, forming into a limp pear-shaped thing that could scarcely be thrown and certainly wouldn’t rupture on impact, before the water began to overflow from its mouth. Isla scowled in annoyance and snatched up the packaging for guidance.

“Oh, there’s a pump,” she pondered aloud before fishing around in the bag for the flimsy plastic device. She then reasoned to fill the sink with water and go from there, but as she casted about for a plug, she found there wasn’t one.

A string of curses were right on the tip of her tongue when she heard the tinkling laughter of children arriving outside.

“Come on, you can’t be bested by a bunch of bloody water balloons,” Isla scorned herself beneath her breath. She snatched the bag and returned to the main cathedral, gaze desperately darting about the hallowed space, before her eyes finally landed on the reservoir of holy water that rested just behind the rear-most benches.

Isla was still for a moment, weighing the potential repercussions in her mind, but she was alone in the church, and with a dismissive shrug decided, “Whatever works.”

She approached the reservoir and got right to work. She found, with glee, that the depth was just right for the pump to fill to capacity, and it was easy to then squeeze that water into balloon after balloon. When she emerged not 20 minutes later, arms full with a basket stacked with what were essentially holy water bombs, the children in the immediate radius squealed happily and all barreled toward her. She felt accomplished and wore the ensuing smile like a badge of honor as small hands grabbed for the balloons in unison. She had done the church some good, she thought with pride.

As Isla watched the colorful balloons fly and the children dart back and forth, laughing with pure delight, her heart swelled. “What a beautiful start to the day,” she whispered to the open air, unaware of the terrible pain her innocuous actions would inflict.

But you all know where this is going, don’t you?

+++

Crowley cursed at his reflection as he shrugged out of the seventh blazer that afternoon. It just wasn’t the _right_ shade of black, and it didn’t taper to his waist in _quite_ the right way. He wanted to look dashing, handsome, _irresistible_. He had a dinner date with Aziraphale, you see, but it wasn’t their typical song-and-dance, no… this was an actual, _honest-to-God_ date. He had even gone out of his way to frame it as such:

** _“-and don’t even get me started on the kushari,” Aziraphale gushed. “Did you ever have a meal by the Nile? Oh it was simply remarkable…”_ **

** _“Angel,” Crowley interrupted. He found that he had unconsciously leaned in so far that their noses were scarcely a few inches apart, such was the magnetic draw to the infuriating Principality before him. His long-suffering patience was at the verge of collapsing, and with Armageddon averted and the world laid out before them like one large, very appetizing oyster, he figured there was no better time to press forward._ **

** _“Have dinner with me tomorrow evening,” he all but blurted. Aziraphale drew back, gaze searching. _ **

** _“Well, of course my dear… what did you have in mind?”_ **

** _Crowley retreated a bit, but never broke eye-contact._ **

** _“A new seafood restaurant opened up in South Kensignton. I hear the mollusks are to die for.”_ **

** _The smile that bloomed across Aziraphale’s countenance threatened to discorporate Crowley then and there._ **

** _“Oh, well that sounds lovely,” the angel drawled._ **

** _Crowley stood, clearing his throat awkwardly, before adding: “It’s a date, then.”_ **

** _An uneasy silence hung between them then, the culmination of something many millennia in the making, and then Aziraphale flashed a shy grin and answered, “Yes. Yes, it’s a date.”_ **

Presently, Crowley snarled down at the silk blazer that protested in his clutches.

“_Fit better_ or I’ll donate you to the Octavia Foundation!”

The fabric shuddered beneath his fingertips at the threat and miraculously stretched and tapered to fit his frame just so, accentuating both his broad shoulders and his narrow waist. Satisfied, Crowley nodded at his reflection and stormed away, out and into the bustling city streets.

There was a flower stand, he knew, just across from a certain cathedral, that sold the loveliest lilies. Their petals curved like the broad, white feathers of an angel’s wing, and he cursed his own romantic heart for noticing the similarity. Still, he knew Aziraphale would enjoy them, and surely his clever mind would draw the comparison, and so Crowley paid for the bouquet with an annoyed grunt and sauntered back across the street to his Bentley.

He was about to get in when he heard a tinny voice: “Sir! Sir, you should consider donating for a new statue!”

Caught somewhere between giddy excitement and delirious fear, it was fair to say that Crowley was not in his element. And so, he cautiously drew toward the young woman who brandished a leaflet in one hand and a donation bucket in the other.

“A statue?” Crowley questioned. “What kind of statue?”

“Oh, we’re taking donations for a new patron saint statue, good sir,” the woman rambled on. “The highest donation wins, of course.”

A sinister smile curled Crowley’s lips and his demeanor softened dangerously. He leaned forward across the table.

“I see. So what’s your name, darling?”

The young lady blushed a bit and drew away, eyebrows narrowed.

“I’m quite married so I’d appreciate if you didn’t call me ‘darling,’” she growled. “That said… the name’s Isla.”

“Isla,” Crowley parroted.

Something unquantifiable radiated from his frame then, the very essence of temptation, and poor Isla was lost for it.

“So you’re telling me, whoever pays the most gets to choose which patron saint gets a new statue?”

“Erm,” Isla floundered, sounding a bit drunk, “Yes. Yes, that’s right.”

“And what is the highest donation so far?”

Isla slowly looked down to the flimsy piece of paper where she had been tallying votes.

“415 pounds, for St. Paul of Tarsus,” she murmured.

Crowley slapped the table with the flat of his hand, causing Isla to jump back in alarm.

“Well then, I’ll pay 4000 pounds right here, right now, for Aziraphale! The patron saint of… of…” he trailed off.

“Az-eer-uh-fell?” Isla questioned, her face crumpling in clear confusion. “Never heard of ‘im.”

“He’s uh, the patron saint of… crepes.” Crowley said decisively.

Isla gaped at him.

“Crepes…?”

“Yes! Yes, crepes. Crepes were one of the Almighty’s greatest creations, you know, to err, erm… show appreciation! That’s it! To-to reward all the loyal subjects for their good deeds. Yeah. Y’know… crepes,” he ended lamely, gesturing vaguely with one hand.

Isla looked crossed between disbelief and the very real possibility that she wasn’t as well versed in Catholic lore as she thought she’d been, and seemed to land on something that bordered acceptance.

“Ok…” she conceded. “That… well, that is a very generous donation indeed! I’m sure you’ll see your statue of Saint… ehh…”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley supplied.

“Yes! Yes, Saint Aziraphale. Just fill out this paperwork, would you?”

Crowley barely registered the laughter of children running about as he jotted down his information. He paid no mind to the water balloons flying this way and that as he drew his BVLGARI wallet from where it was nested snug in his back pocket and miracled out just under 4200 pounds. Isla accepted the offering with wide eyes, and as the demon watched her count the bills in disbelief, he was pelted on the shoulder with a balloon that exploded on impact, and he snapped around to see his very essence begin to dissolve.

With a wail of pain he staggered away, hobbled across the street, and collapsed into the nearest alleyway, clutching his shoulder in desperation, teeth grit in agony.

“Shit, shit, shit, _shit_,” he wailed, willing his flesh to mend itself even as it continued to dissolve. He found he was trapped in an endless cycle, trying desperately to stitch his broken essence back together over and over and _over_ again, buckling to the excruciating sensation of being torn apart even as he attempted, with every fiber of his being, to repair himself.

He didn’t hear Isla mutter from across the street, “well _that_ was a bit dramatic.”

Forced to come to terms with his imminent demise, Crowley shakily drew his phone from an inner pocket and dialed the person he adored most, even as his tortured shoulder continued to break and rebuild in a sickening display.

“Oh! Hello there Crowley…”

“_Angel_,” Crowley croaked, voice strained in anguish.

There was a long pause, before Aziraphale answered, sounding pointedly concerned.

“Crowley…? Are you alright?”

“M’dying,” he managed. 

“You… you’re _what_? Crowley, this had better not be a joke…”

“Before… ah, before I go… I just… you need to know, Angel, I…”

“_Where are you?!_”

A whine bubbled up from the back of Crowley’s throat as he glanced across the street. His vision was tearing at the edges, and he could feel the fabric of reality begin to shift; the world around him bending beneath the weight of the death of a cosmic being.

“_Ngggh_,” he cried, helpless. “Across from… St. Patrick’s… Cathedral…”

Not even a moment later there was a flash of light, and there stood Aziraphale, looking down at his crumpled form with horror-stricken eyes. He immediately fell to his knees and pawed at the searing flesh of Crowley’s shoulder, the lines of his face deepening with sudden understanding.

“Oh no, no, _no_,” the angel rambled. “What… who did this to you?”

Crowley looked up and managed a sad grin.

“Was th’bloody… water balloons.”

“_What!?_ Crowley hold still, you’re-“

“Angel,” he interrupted, hands leaving his shoulder to cradle Aziraphale’s face. “Love you,” he managed between grit teeth as the rest of his form dissolved away, the angel's despairing wails echoing about in his mind before the world faded into blissful obscurity.


	2. Lord, What You're Doing to Me

It was just past noon, and Aziraphale was tutting at his reflection with a scowl. His usual cream-colored tartan fare just wouldn’t do, not today. Not for the first time he ached to be as effortlessly stylish as the demon that had stolen his affection, for the whole business of fashion seemed suspended just beyond his reach. If he were being honest, he had stopped bothering with new clothing just under a century ago, when he had discovered the beloved suit that he now wore on a daily basis, so much so that the fabric about his vest buttons had begun to fade.

Too put out to go shopping and so thoroughly distressed that even a strongly worded letter from Gabriel wouldn’t so much as ruffle his feathers, Aziraphale took to scouring the internet on the “smart phone” Crowley had bought him, peering with narrowed eyes at various modern fashions. He doubted very seriously that he could tempt a demon, but he was going to give it his best shot, nonetheless.

There were turtleneck sweaters that seemed too modest, given the circumstance, and pleated shorts that seemed a bit too casual. He easily scrolled past the jumpers and leather pants and outrageously tight articles that would suit Crowley much better than one as soft as himself. On the verge of giving up entirely, he happened upon a lovely maroon v-neck sweater. It dipped a bit low for his usual standards of comfort, but he reasoned that it was appropriate enough for a date.

After a few more minutes of browsing, he found an accompanying pair of slate-grey slacks and shiny black oxfords. With a deft flourish of one hand, the clothing materialized on his person, all perfectly fitted, and he turned this way and that, considering his profile from every angle.

Aziraphale smoothed a hand over the fine fabric and sighed. It would have to do, he supposed. He worried the hem of his newly-manifested sweater as he went for the kitchen, hoping a cup of tea (tea that may or may not have been spiked with scotch) would settle his nerves.

He had only taken a couple of sips when his phone blared to life. Seeing who it was, his lips couldn’t help but curve into a fond smile.

“Oh, hello there Crowley…” he greeted.

But you already know how the rest of the conversation goes.

+++

Aziraphale could do little more than watch in horror as Crowley dissolved away, leaving nothing behind, as if he’d never existed at all. He stayed there, on his knees, for several minutes, the sheer shock of what had just happened sinking into the very marrow of his celestial bones. The air around him grew stagnant, as though the world were holding her breath, and then the angel slumped forward, utterly defeated, to bury his face in his trembling hands, sobbing hysterically, cursing the world, the very _Heavens_, for what had been ripped from him.

And Crowley _had_ been ripped from him, quite literally. It felt like an essential piece of his soul had been violently torn away, leaving him hollow and bereft. He wailed into his useless palms, oblivious to the dark clouds that seemed to settle over the immediate area at an alarming rate. Passersby paused in their commutes, staring dumbly as the sun was blot out, the hairs at the napes of their necks standing on end from the inexplicably electric current that seemed to pulse throughout the open air. Yet, Aziraphale remained withdrawn in his all-consuming grief, Crowley’s last words echoing throughout his mind like a damning benediction.

+++

Isla ushered the children inside as foreboding dark clouds swirled about the spires of the cathedral.

“Get in, loves,” she called, voice laden with concern.

The same kindly old woman who had tasked her with filling water balloons approached and muttered, “Bizarre weather we’re having.”

Isla nodded absently as she pushed the last wayward kid inside by their shoulders.

+++

Crowley awoke from what he quickly assessed as the worst hangover of his 6,000-year existence. He sat up, eyes screwed shut, a hand fluttering to his pounding head.

“Fffffuck,” he hissed.

The air felt heavy around him, and he might have noticed the distinct shift in atmosphere were he not so lost, each meandering thought returning back to “which fifth of scotch did I suck down last night,” and “why didn’t I think to sober up before bed?”

His ache-addled brain was still scrambling for reason when he finally registered the alarmingly bright flash from behind his eyelids before a heavenly voice bore into him: “Hello, Crawley.”

The demon made a distressed noise from the back of his throat and hazarded to open one eye.

“It’s _Crowley_, actually.”

The presence before him didn’t so much laugh as produce a distinct aura of amusement. There was a dancing show of lights that almost took a form of some sort, though his useless faculties couldn’t quite make sense of what he was seeing.

“You helped to stop Armageddon, and here you are, felled by a water balloon,” the voice continued, tone pitched in mirth.

The events of the day seemed to crash into him then with brutal force, and Crowley groaned helplessly as the reality of _who_ he was speaking to finally dawned on him, and he was stricken with the sudden, all-encompassing _terror_ of it all.

“Ah,” he croaked in fearful recognition, “s’been a while.”

When his lame greeting was met with nothing but silence, Crowley made a vague gesture to the infinitely white space about him. “So, is this where supernatural beings go when we finally kick the bucket?”

The lights, frayed about the edges, twinkled ever closer, and Crowley shuddered beneath their intensely holy warmth.

“Would you like to know how the Guardian of the Eastern Gate is faring in your absence?” the voice questioned, bearing down on him with righteous intensity, seeming to strip him away yet again, atom by atom, more potent than the purest holy water.

“Nggck,” Crowley tried, then scrambled to regain some composure, a trembling hand smoothing back his shock of red hair. “Aziraphale… is he alright?”

The lights drew back, and Crowley breathed a near-desperate sigh of relief as some of the celestial pressure ebbed from about his form.

“He is unharmed,” the voice supplied. “Though I’ve never seen a Principality quite so upset.”

Crowley offered a sad smirk at this admission.

“I stood him up for our first date,” he murmured, tone laced with remorse. “Didn’t mean to, of course,” he added weakly.

There was an uncomfortable stretch of silence, the bewildered demon basking in the glow of the Mother he’d lost so many millennia ago, and then the air shifted around him, producing the same effect as a beleaguered sigh.

“You were meant to protect each other,” She said at length, “and to protect the World. Isn’t that what you wanted all along?”

Dazed, Crowley climbed unsteadily to his feet to face the incomprehensible figure before him as best he could.

“Yes!” He cried, "I want that more than anything.”

The lights then burst from their core, a terribly beautiful aurora of color that exploded to encompass the very mettle of his being, and Crowley gasped at the sensation, feeling so utterly out of his depth that he could scarcely move, could scarcely _think_.

“Good,” She quipped decisively. “Off you go, then.”

“_Wha-?_” Crowley sputtered as the light suddenly retreated, a gathering darkness eclipsing the brilliant prismatic show that had invaded his vision mere moments prior. “What do you want from me!?”

The odd plane of existence in which he’d awoken began to dissolve around him as he witnessed the light soften into a small, sparkling pinprick amidst the swirling black smoke of nothingness that was quickly flooding his vision.

“I never reveal my hand,” came the distant, lilting reply, and quite suddenly Crowley was swept away into oblivion.

+++

Isla was sat on the rear-most bench of the sanctuary, arm slung over the back, staring pointedly at the reservoir of holy water, feeling as though she had missed something important. The pure liquid twinkled in the dim light of the cathedral, dancing this way and that, almost tauntingly.

The unmistakable roil of thunder rumbled overhead as she mused on the strange turn of weather, mused on the strange man that had approached her, speaking of the "patron saint of crepes." She thought about the lovely bouquet of lilies he had dropped as he ran away in haste, after being pelted by an errant water balloon.

_How odd_, she thought, worrying her bottom lip. 

She then recalled the elderly woman who had urged her to fill those balloons in the first place, and… _what was her name again?_

Isla couldn’t remember. She’d never seen the woman at Mass, and she had worked rather hard to memorize every single regular in an attempt to solidify her status as a bonafide Catholic.

Intrigued, she turned around and surveyed the cathedral, trying to pick the woman out from the sparse crowd, but couldn’t find her anywhere.

_Didn’t she follow me inside?_ Isla questioned herself.

A flash of lightning lit up the interior in a startling display, and the children all yelped in the way young ones are want to do, frightful of even the smallest shift in weather.

_I think I’ve been drinking too much “blood of Christ,”_ Isla silently admonished when she still couldn’t spot the mysterious woman from before, and so, quite done with her brief existential reverie, she drew her phone from her purse and took to playing a round of Tetris while she waited for the storm to pass.

+++

When Crowley came back to himself he was standing, inexplicably, at the heart of the alleyway where he had most certainly died, staring at the form of a crumpled, broken angel. The shadow of the nearest building sliced across Aziraphale’s back, shrouding his upper body in darkness, but Crowley could still make out the subtle trembling of his shoulders. He shrank a bit at the heartbreaking sight, and as he stood there, unnoticed, he feared he might be little more than a wayward ghost, but then the sky burst open, drenching him to the core with chilling raindrops.

He was present. He was _alive_.

Steeling himself, Crowley stepped forward. 

“Angel?” he ventured. Aziraphale froze, and for one suffocating moment Crowley wondered if he had inadvertently stopped time, so still was the form before him, but then the angel turned to meet his beseeching stare. His gaze lifted, a hopeful expression shuddering across that beloved face, and his glassy eyes widened for just a moment before narrowing in pure contempt.

Crowley had never seen the angel wear such a furious expression, but he had little time to ponder this before he was swept up by a hurricane of painfully blinding light, eventually finding himself knocked squarely on his ass by the sheer force of it all.

Crowley squawked in alarm before squinting up at the newly realized, imposing form before him, with four tremendous alabaster wings and _eyes_, so many _eyes_, all peering at him and _through_ him, each piercing gaze pinning him in place, despite every tightly-would atom of his being urging him to flee.

There was an echo in his memory of a time before the world, well before the stars, when he had perhaps beheld another angel in its truest form, but that had been many millennia ago. Despite this, Crowley was fairly certain he would never forget _this_ sight for as long as he walked the Earth (which, he realized now, could be a very short time indeed): a beautiful monster shrouded in a searing, vengeful aura.

“How _dare_ you,” Aziraphale seethed as he drew a step closer. His booming voice carried the weight of a rapturous chorus, and it rattled through Crowley’s frame like a whip-crack of lightning. The quartet of all-seeing wings unfurled to encircle the bewildered demon where he sat helplessly on the cold, wet, concrete, each eye bearing down on him with righteous judgement.

“You think you can fool me?” Aziraphale questioned, his lips curled with an uncharacteristic sneer. “I _knew_ Crowley couldn’t be stupid enough to die from something as trivial as a water balloon.”

“Well, y’see, about that,” Crowley began, but then the angel made a deft flick of his wrist, and a flaming sword materialized in one hand, blazing away despite the steady torrent of rain. The demon frowned in alarm as the sword was drawn to his throat in a slow, deliberate arch.

_This_ snapped Crowley from his fearful haze, and he gaped up at the angel with a pinched expression.

“Oh, for _fuck’s_ sake,” he croaked, exasperated. “The hell are you doing?”

Aziraphale didn’t part his lips to answer, and Crowley didn’t so much hear as _feel_ the ensuing scream as it ricocheted through his skull – a deafening banshee wail. Out of instinct, he clamped his hands to his ears, desperate to escape the cacophonous onslaught.

“_You killed him_,” the angel growled at length, his words clear and sinister, even over the grating torrent of noise that continued to swirl within Crowley’s brain.

Despite the unrelenting mental torment, a pinprick of blessed clarity bloomed from the demon’s core.

_I was doused in holy water_, Crowley reasoned. _No demon can bounce back from that._

_Aziraphale watched me disappear._

_I should be done for, obviously._

_He must think I’m an imposter._

_Shit._

Delirious, exhausted, and only slightly less confused than he’d been a handful of minutes ago, Crowley peered up at the amalgamation of rancorous holiness that had once been his best friend. He figured he should say something poignant, recount some personal memory that only the two of them had shared to prove his identity.

What he blurted instead was: “Is that a V-neck sweater?”

The screeching came to an abrupt halt and Aziraphale drew back in clear confusion.

Crowley scowled and cricked his neck from side to side to rid the tinny whine that lingered even after the noise had ceased.

“Never thought I’d see you in anything that wasn’t buttoned up to your bloody chin,” he rambled on, pulling himself to his feet as he spoke. The sword followed his Adam’s apple with the movement, albeit a bit shakily.

Crowley ran a hand through his disheveled hair and gave the angel a once-over. He made a conciliatory noise from the back of his throat.

“Can’t say it’s a bad look.”

There was a long pause, and in his manic state Crowley almost wanted to laugh when every single angelic eye narrowed at him simultaneously.

“This primal form of yours, it’s err,” he trailed off, gesturing vaguely with both hands, “over the top though, right? With the extra wings, and you’ve gotta thank Heaven you don’t need eye contacts.”

Then, Crowley was stricken with a truly ridiculous notion – one that he couldn’t quite let go of.

“That’d be a right awful thing though, wouldn’t it? Big terrible angel, eyes all over, and for what? It’s all blurry! The whole world! You can’t… they don’t make glasses for _wings_,” he soldiered on, no longer looking at Aziraphale, but just shaking his head at the pavement below as he paced in a tight circle, gesturing to the open air as if he were arguing a very imperative point.

The sword finally fell, slowly, to the angel’s side as Crowley continued to rant, lost in this new train of thought.

“What’s that like, anyway? I mean, you’ve got, what, a good hundred of ‘em? D’you have compound vision like an insect? Am I just a bunch of tiny hexagons to you right now, Angel?”

The flames dissipated from Aziraphale’s sword as his grip grew lax, before the weapon clattered to the ground. The skies grew ever darker as another low growl of thunder sounded overhead.

“Crowley…?” Aziraphale quavered.

The demon’s head snapped back around at the acknowledgement, and his heart skipped in hope.

“Yes, you idiot, it’s me. Look, even if I told you how I’m here, you wouldn’t believe me. But it _is_ me. Go on, ask me anything.”

Aziraphale took a tentative step forward.

“What’s your favorite book?”

“Don’t have one,” was Crowley’s immediate response. “Don’t read.”

Aziraphale’s wings faded away as the sky began to brighten, each tumultuous cloud parting a bit to allow some sunlight to trickle down. The rain lessened to more of a mist, and Crowley grunted in relief when the angel took to his human corporation once more, with just the two eyes - two eyes that were wide and searching, two eyes that were obviously flicking between his own gaze and then down to his lips.

Admittedly, Crowley had been barking up that _particular_ tree for millennia, and had been shot down more times than he cared to recount, and so while common knowledge might dictate that he close the distance between them and finally, _finally_ kiss the bastard angel he’d been chasing after for so long, he remained stationary, fearful, like a beaten dog.

To his shock and delight, it was _Aziraphale_ who strode forward with clear intent, only to grab the rain-ruined silk of his lapels and crash their lips together. The lingering storm clouds retreated then, and the light misting ceased, and all Crowley could do was slide one hand urgently to the back of his angel’s neck while the other scrabbled for purchase on his hip, and they might have stood there for eternity, desperately licking into each others’ mouths, were it not for a wayward pedestrian who shouted, “Get a room!”

Aziraphale broke away, and he was trembling, his white-blonde hair sticking to his forehead, looking desperately to Crowley for direction. Crowley, on the other hand, was near-drunk from the whole business of dying, only to come back to life to nearly die _again_ at the behest of this infuriating, wonderful angel, and kissing said angel was just the cherry on top of an incomprehensible existential sundae that he was struggling to fully choke down at the moment.

Not knowing what else to do, with those pale blue eyes searching his own, Crowley lifted a hand and murmured, “Well, you heard the man,” and with a snap they were standing in his flat, in the bedroom, dripping rainwater onto the expensive obsidian tiles.

Aziraphale was still gripping his blazer, was still bearing into him with that despairing look, the force of which nearly knocked Crowley sideways. Then, with a whine, the blessed angel pulled him forward once more, and Crowley found that he was falling all over again, suddenly awash with wonder and grace, and he realized with intensity that he should like to fall forever.

It was a messy, desperate kiss this time, and when Aziraphale finally broke away he murmured, “I thought I’d lost you.” 

Now, Crowley wouldn’t wish love on his worst enemy because _this_ sensation positively rent him apart, a deliciously painful ache that bloomed from his chest and threatened to flay the very flesh from his bones, and he had to chuckle, because what he felt was well beyond his capacity for speech.

“Oh, you can’t get rid of me _that_ easily,” he drawled at length, and this drew a strangled laugh from the angel, who pulled him forward again, and again, and _again_.

Aziraphale was smashed against him, as if he were trying to crawl right into Crowley’s skin, and the effect was positively _maddening_. He distantly wondered how many times he had imagined this exact scenario and had to struggle not to dissolve into a pathetic weeping mess as Aziraphale tangled possessive fingers into his hair and trailed his free hand up and down his spine in shaking, reverent circles.

A low grown clawed its way from deep in Crowley’s throat and he pulled away to lick and nip up the column of the angel’s pale neck, tasting the rainwater as he went, delighting in every shiver that he drew from his beloved, and it struck him then: the many times they had danced around each other, the many more times they had nearly _lost_ each other, and the suffocating fact that they were here, _now_.

He was overcome with desperation as he pushed the angel backwards a few paces, onto his bed, and fumbled with the hem of his sweater. Looking up, ochre eyes wide and suppliant, he slurred, “S-this alright?”

“Oh, yes, _God_ yes,” Aziraphale answered immediately. 

The sweater was hastily pulled off Aziraphale’s frame and discarded on the floor, and Crowley took great delight in mapping every inch of the newly exposed skin with lips and teeth and tongue, no longer a demon, but a disciple worshipping at the altar of his _everything_. He had never been one for lavish meals, but now he feasted on his angel like a man half-starved, and he might have been embarrassed of the noises that bubbled up from his core were it not for the pure ecstasy painted across Aziraphale’s face, his neck bowed back, eyes slammed shut, a quivering smile on those kiss-darkened lips. Crowley drank it all in like a glutton and would have happily continued his ministrations for a hundred years had Aziraphale not bucked up his hips insistently.

Crowley grinned, taking the hint, and made quick work of the shoes and slacks. The pants, wet as they were, had left little to the imagination anyway, but _still_. Witnessing his angel bare and flushed and _wanting_ sent a thrill straight to the very marrow of his being, more captivating than when he’d breathed an entire, sprawling galaxy into existence.

Aziraphale wriggled a bit beneath the demon’s slack-jawed gaze and growled, “You’re wearing too many clothes, my dear,” and then the wily angel snapped his fingers and Crowley found himself startlingly naked to the open air.

He wanted to make some quip about how “patience is a virtue,” or something equally as clever, but the demon was too far gone, and he’d never been very good at denying Aziraphale anyway. He lunged forward and claimed the angel’s lips once more, and the overwhelming sensation of bare skin against skin was almost too much to process as Aziraphale moaned into his mouth, wanton and unashamed, a former paragon of virtue reduced to a writhing, pleading mess at Crowley’s touch. The demon was positively drunk on the searing cocktail of need that thrummed like an electric current throughout his veins, urging him closer still, because _this_ was where he was meant to be all along.

Crowley grabbed at the angel’s sides, deep enough to bruise, and rocked his hips forward, earning a delicious gasp for his efforts. It was burning hellfire and blazing redemption where they touched, as if Aziraphale succumbed to sin just as Crowley was blessed by Heaven’s grace.

He wanted to slow down, _God_ he wanted to take his time, but he couldn’t stop, not now, not with the angel grappling needily at his shoulders and bucking incessantly up against him, and so he willed himself to wrench away, determined to give his angel some relief. Aziraphale whined at the loss of contact, but then his eyes blew wide in understanding as Crowley slinked lower down his form and settled on his knees before taking the angel into his mouth, and the sinful moan that left Aziraphale’s lips nearly pushed Crowley over the edge then and there. He redoubled his focus, devious tongue swirling salaciously, taking his angel to the very back of his throat, pupils blown wide, unblinking, so he could relish in the agonizing pleasure he was inflicting, and _oh_, what a show it was.

Aziraphale fisted the sheets on either side, back arched off the bed like a bow, wriggling this way and that, and Crowley would have worn the widest self-satisfied smirk were his mouth not otherwise occupied.

“_Crowley_,” Aziraphale groaned in a low, shaky voice, and the demon realized then that he would do absolutely _anything_, would pull down the moon and stars, would rearrange the entire cosmos, if only to hear the angel call his name like that again. He was helpless in the face of just how completely Aziraphale had enraptured him, and he hummed his enjoyment, his devotion, running appreciative hands up and down the angel’s inviting thighs, just before Aziraphale shattered completely beneath his touch with a strangled cry.

Crowley watched as he shook apart, lapped him up in a drunken haze, and when the angel’s quivering form finally went lax, the demon sat back on his haunches and rudely licked his lips. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale gushed, “Oh that was just… _wonderful_.”

“Understatement of the century, Angel,” Crowley rumbled as he slid beside him on the bed, fingers dancing up and down Aziraphale’s side. The angel turned to him then, one hand lifting to a sharp cheekbone while the other drifted lower.

“You know I love you too, right?” he whispered in the space between them. Crowley’s breath hitched as Aziraphale’s words washed over him, as his hand wrapped around him, and he buried his face in the crook of the angel’s shoulder, as if to hide from the choking emotional onslaught, as if he _could_ hide.

The well-manicured fingertips on his cheek migrated to the nape of his neck, then slid up to rake through his hair, all gentle, tender motions, as the other hand worked him into an absolute frenzy. Crowley had once prided himself on his cool demeanor, but he was completely at Aziraphale’s mercy here, each deft flick of his wrist, each gentle squeeze drawing moan after moan, as if the angel could read his thoughts and desires as easily as one of his cursed books.

“You’re stunning,” Aziraphale murmured against his skin, and Crowley keened at the praise, soaking it up like a plant parched of water. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he continued in that silky, honeyed voice, and Crowley had to reach out and draw him flush against his own body as he shook apart, feeling as though he had entered the gates of Heaven once more, all warm and blissful and _sated_.

Many minutes later, after several lazy kisses and quiet declarations, when they had shared a shower and retreated, exhausted, to the bed, Crowley watched with fascination as his angel slept soundly, trusting, in his arms, a being that had not slept in perhaps a thousand years. He traced Aziraphale’s cheek with reverence and the overwhelming adoration he felt threatened to strangle him and send him back to where he probably belonged. 

Looking up at his ceiling, Crowley squinted and, drawing from the well of his power, willed himself to peer through the black plaster, into the endless, starry abyss of the night sky, and he whispered, simply, “Thank you.”

When he drifted into his own easy slumber, pressed against his angel, who looked every bit the part, each soft curve seeming to glow in the low light, he gave little thought to the weight of a demon’s prayer.

+++

Aziraphale awoke slowly, when the first lazy tendrils of sunlight managed to trickle through Crowley’s ridiculous black curtains. He could feel said demon’s easy breath against his neck, no doubt still deep in his dreams, with one boneless arm draped possessively about his shoulder.  
Aziraphale, too, felt loose and languid, not unlike a snake, and an easy smile graced his lips at the unbidden comparison. He stayed there for a few blissful moments, soaking up the intoxicating warmth, and realized for the first time in his long existence why people tended to make such a fuss about sleep. It really _was_ quite lovely, especially with a partner.

Moving as slowly as he could muster, he slid from beneath Crowley’s lax grip and smiled fondly down at the demon who looked quite harmless as he laid there, eyes closed, lips parted, hair tousled. He looked more peaceful than Aziraphale had ever seen him, his careful guard thoroughly stripped away, leaving nothing but the beautiful, idiotic, charming man he had always known.

Wincing at the pile of rain-ruined clothing at his feet, the angel quietly took to rummaging through Crowley’s dresser before he recovered a well-worn pair of grey flannel pajamas with an elastic waist that would accommodate his generous hips and slid into them without a second thought. He then padded over to the kitchen, pristine and shining from disuse, and frowned.

Predictably, the cabinets were bare save for various bottles of alcohol, and the refrigerator wasn’t much better off, stocked only with expired condiments and club soda. The freezer _did_ have a box of fossilized frozen waffles, but overall Aziraphale found he had next to nothing to work with.

So, with a small rebellious shrug, he miracled a full counter of fresh ingredients into existence and set to work.

+++

Crowley was drawn from his slumber by an intoxicating combination of scents: rainwater and strong coffee and something else that smelled mouth-wateringly sweet. He smiled at the slight indentation in his mattress where a certain angel had lain the night prior and sighed aloud like a lovestruck moron.

_If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck…_, he thought bitterly to himself, cursing the rush of warmth that rose to his cheeks.

When he stepped from the bedroom and was greeted with the sight of Aziraphale wearing his lounge pants and flitting about his kitchen with a serene smile perched on his lips, he knew for a fact that he had never, in over 6,000 years of existence, been happier. 

It felt easy and natural to stride over and plant a reverent kiss to the nape of his angel's neck.

“What’s all this, then?”

Aziraphale nuzzled against him in response as he wiped the powdered sugar from his hands with a soft black dish towel that had probably never been used for more than decoration.

“Good morning, my dear.” The angel nodded to the colorful fruit bowel and fluffy folded pastries and supplied, “You’re up just in time for crepes.”

Crowley spared the food a short glance before returning his gaze to the angel, eyes roving over the bare skin like a possessive caress.

“_It looks delicious_,” he hissed suggestively. Aziraphale snorted and patted his cheek in a pale imitation of a slap.

“You’re incorrigible. Go sit down and I’ll bring you a plate.”

Crowley gave a dopey, toothy grin and did as he was told. He slunk into his throne and tracked the angel as he puttered about, then accepted his food with a gracious nod when Aziraphale finally padded over. The angel hovered then, his own plate in hand, and looked about the flat with a pinched expression.

“Erm, where am _I_ going to sit?”

Already one bite into the flakiest, most delectable crepe he’d ever tasted, Crowley gestured to the stiff, transparent, plastic chair at his desk. Aziraphale followed the motion and his frown deepened.

“You can’t be serious.”

With an exaggerated eyeroll (more to keep up appearances than anything), Crowley muttered, “Alright, alright, don’t get your knickers in a twist,” and before Aziraphale could finish the retort that he wasn’t _wearing_ knickers, a large, fluffy couch materialized in the center of the room.

“Oh, _thank_ you,” the angel gushed appreciatively. As he sank into the deep cushions, he squinted at the faint grey tartan pattern that criss-crossed the material and shot Crowley a knowing grin.

“You really are a sap.”

“Shut it.”

+++

Months later, Isla was fussing about the hedges that separated the nearest sidewalk from St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral, picking up the scattered bits of garbage, when she overheard a couple approaching. She smiled in delight when she spotted the twiggy, black-clad man from before, walking along with a healthier, smartly dressed gentleman who looked thoroughly distressed.

“I really don’t understand why you insist on coming back here,” he fretted, hands dancing about in emphasis. 

Crowley grinned mischievously as he continued on, pointedly ignoring his companion’s frenzied complaints.

“Isla!” he called ahead with a lazy wave. “How’ve you been?”

Isla straightened and beamed happily in greeting, though she was somewhat put off by the slightly scandalized look of the other fellow.

“I’ve been great!” She stepped aside then, eager to show off the front garden’s newest addition, and gestured behind her to a towering, marble-white statue that stood at the center of a lovely ring of daisies. “You’ll be happy to know that your generous donation went to good use.”

Crowley’s smile grew ever wider before he issued a low whistle, clearly impressed.

“What is the meaning of this?” the other man demanded.

“It’s Aziraphale, the patron saint of crepes!” Isla supplied helpfully. “I’d never heard of him before, but we were able to add him to the gardens thanks to your friend here.”

“Patron saint of…” the odd man trailed off, looking very much like he might implode. Then, quite suddenly, he spun on his heel and fixed Crowley with a furious glare. “I can’t believe you!” He then turned and marched across the street.

Crowley chuckled at the display, looking very much like the cat who caught the canary, before giving a curt nod back to Isla. “I guess I better be off, then. Ciao.”

Squinting after them in confusion, Isla watched as the lanky man caught up to his companion in a few long strides. They bickered back and forth for a moment, before he purchased a bouquet of lilies from the flower stand nearby and presented them to the exasperated fellow with a devilish flourish.

When they kissed a moment later, just a sweet, brief peck on the lips, Isla couldn’t help but smile, and if the sparse clouds overhead parted just a bit and the sunlight intensified by a slight margin, she didn’t notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this! I fell into this fandom pretty recently and, I've gotta say, it's a great community. <3


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